A Murder

Some speak or murder before a court of crows

Pockmarking a field

Upon which a few dance and saunter to the

Rush of traffic.

An hour of dying daylight beckons their solemn song.

A song wrenched up like grave goods.

What can one hope to decipher from their throat-song?

For it is ancienter than the flanking oaks

And they themselves sway and swell like some huge cryptic puppet show

Borrowing the last embers from the fled sun

Not before a peppering of gulls momentarily bejewel a cloud as it's dying breath

Flares up on their warm bellies.

There may be no certainty here.

But just as trodden grass and the ground wet-pulp of nettles betray their story

To the patient eyes of its intimates

The sleek and beady-eyed corvidae, perpetually frowning from the looms of pre-history,

will surely allow me to breach the inner courts.

I'll stay for a while.